


the nutcracker

by thefudge



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Ballet, F/M, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Control, but not really, fluffy holiday fic, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: “Roman. Behave.”(or Gerri and Roman see The Nutcracker. Holiday prompt)
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	the nutcracker

**Author's Note:**

> I laugh when I think about the original purpose of the "fluffy holiday fic" fic challenge (https://thefudge.tumblr.com/post/189391284698/fluffy-holiday-fic-prompts), because this probably isn't it, lol. In my defense, I got prompt 23 (the nutcracker) for this pair as a request, and there was only one way for me to go, realistically. And honestly, this is EXACTLY how i picture Gerri and Roman's version of holiday fluff.  
> Anyway, has there been a more electric TV duo in the past decade, I ask you?

Ballet sucks.

That’s not a 'hot take' for anyone who has had to sit through hours of it.

Everyone knows it’s a big, glittery waste of time. They just don't like admitting it. It's like there's a universal agreement in place that no one can badmouth ballet, no matter how turgid. 

_The Nutcracker_ is probably the most turgid, just in terms of goddamn whimsy.

The Sugar Plum Fairy is doing a stupid, frog-legged dance that looks like she’s trying to fit a mini-fridge up her cooch, which image is not interesting enough to keep his eyes on the stage.

He lowers himself in his seat and casts a searching glance to his left. Gerri is seated three empty seats over, for some reason. He groans.

She’s done this on purpose, putting this distance between them, like some kind of tease.

Roman clambers over the two seats, ass sticking in the air. The people around him mutter in disapproval, as if his ass weren’t more entertaining than watching fucking snowflakes waltz. And no, he’s not using the “touchy Millennial” sense of the word. There’s literally a dance number called like that.

Gerri heaves a harassed sigh as he falls next to her, his knees knocking sharply into hers.

“Why the frown, Ger-Bear? Someone your age really shouldn’t squint.”

Gerri doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Be quiet, Roman.”

Her dismissive, matronly tone rankles. But it also absolutely delights.

Roman fake-yawns and drapes his arm over the back of her seat. “Why should I be quiet?”

Gerri shifts, her nape brushing against his arm. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She’s tense, though. She's always tense. Is it him? He'd like to think it's him and not just her usual brand of generalized misanthropy. 

“Because I, unlike you, am trying to enjoy this. Also, please refrain from using nicknames.”

“What, _Ger-Bear_? It'll grow on you.”

“Roman.”

“How can you enjoy this overproduced crap? It’s so boring and thankless, like watching potpourri grow sentience.”

Gerri purses her lips to hide a smile. If he were less of an egomaniac, she’d tell him he really has a way with words and he doesn’t get enough credit for his insults. But fueling him is not a smart course of action. No, she has to control him. That's her job. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Roman wriggles his eyebrows gleefully. She fell right into that one. “Oh, I have a couple of interesting suggestions.”

Gerri pretends to act more upset than she feels. “That’s in very poor taste, Roman. Also, the executives from AGORA are right behind us. Please don’t give them a show.”

“Aren’t we literally giving them a show?” he mutters, opening his arms to encapsulate the sumptuous theater. “Although, if you ask me, making them sit through this twinkly horseshit is going to change their mind about the deal.”

“Luckily, no one has asked you yet,” she points out rather savagely, but as with all her insults, there’s something almost kind about them, tender even.

Roman’s arm presses against her back. His fingers lift slightly to play with the hair at the back of her neck. “Where’s the off button to your bitch mode, hmm? I can’t find it.”

And that’s when her hand finally lands on his thigh, nails out, scraping.

“Roman. Behave.”

Fuck. Yes.

Roman’s hand stills. He stops playing with her hair. He stops altogether. He waits, sitting stonily.

Gerri’s claw remains hooked into his thigh, warm and cloying and a little feral.

“Eyes on the dancing. Mouth shut,” she instructs. “Enjoy yourself.”

It’s a command like any other. _You better fucking like it._

Roman swallows. He watches the stupid toy soldiers prance across the stage. There’s nothing to like about it, but he knows, deep down, Gerri is referring to something else.

He is hyper-aware of her hand still on his thigh.

This is what he wanted, after all. But even when she’s doing what he wants, she has a way of making it hers.

Her hand isn’t totally still. Some excruciating minutes later, her fingers slide slowly – no more than half an inch - up his thigh. Then back, slowly. Then up. Then… back down. The rhythm is punishing. Snail-like. Difficult to feel, impossible to ignore.

He shifts in his seat, tries to get her hand to go higher, but she hums in disapproval. She lifts her hand slightly, as if threatening to remove it.

_Shit._

Roman obeys. 

Her hand returns to its unnoticeable cadence. 

Ten minutes later he is just about ready to shoot himself. And everyone else in this theater. “Jesus, can you – can you just rub my cock already?”

She appreciates that he has the good sense to whisper that.

“Don’t be silly, Roman,” Gerri replies airily.

Roman is close to whimpering. His cock is hard enough that her hand doesn’t need to go higher anymore. It’s right _there_ , straining against the lining of his pants, glued to his thigh, begging her to move her fucking fingers.

Gerri tuts under her breath. “You don’t need me to touch your cock.”

Roman clenches his jaw.

“I really, _really_ fucking do,” he grits. 

Gerri smiles a benign smile, staring at the dancers. “Give yourself more credit. I think you’re able to come without my ministration. In fact, you should do it. Right now. Quietly.”

It’s the “quietly” that fucks him up. That last professional remark. Gerri is always careful.

Roman presses a fist to his mouth.

 _Fuuuuuuck_ , _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he wails inside his head as he shudders and moves his hips frantically, making his chair slightly creak. His arm around her seat convulses, but he doesn’t dare to touch her. He claws faintly at the back of her chair.

Her hand remains perfectly still on his thigh, riding the waves.

God, he almost blacks out for a second. Has no clue where he is.

But no, Tchaikovsky’s hellishly twee arrangement is still playing in the background when he returns to himself.

Gerri has removed her hand, finally.

“Do you need a napkin?” she asks gently.

Roman wants to bite her head off. But he wants to do other things first. Like kneel beneath her chair and lift the hem of her dress and eat her dried-up pussy until it’s wet for him. 

He unclenches his jaw and leans back in his seat with what he hopes is a lazy smile. “I’m good, Ger-Bear. Thanks for the hand.”

Gerri smiles with half her mouth. She hasn’t looked at him once since this whole thing began.

But she glances at him now.

“You better clap when it ends.”

Oh, he does.

He’s so eager to clap he gets up first. Gives a big standing ovation. Doesn’t just clap, but whistles and yelps, and pumps his fist in the air to show how much he fucking loves ballet. I mean, has there ever been a more perfect name than _The Nutcracker_?

It’s like God’s private joke.

Luckily, the stain on his lap doesn’t show.

Gerri checked.

She stands beside him and claps demurely, small smirk on her lips. “Still have some energy left for AGORA?”

Roman chuckles, shakes his head. She is a fucking cold cunt. God, he loves it. Wants to make mutant babies with it.

“Yeah, I do,” he responds disgustingly, whole-heartedly sincere.


End file.
